


life in 4/4 time

by akamine_chan



Category: Hard Core Logo
Genre: Community: hard_core_hero, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-16
Updated: 2008-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy learns to live without Joe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life in 4/4 time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Livejournals hard_core_hero challenge.
> 
> Much, much love to Dugrival for hand-holding and cheer-leading. Without you, m'dear, this would have never gotten done. Thank you so much. Much love and respect to the wild-hot-repressed librarian of wonderfulness, Spuffyduds for her tense and pov wrangling and general awesomeness for helping out. Beyond that, all mistakes are mine. Oh, and thanks to the lovely mods Brynnmck and SDWolfpup for such a cool challenge idea! Thanks, everyone!
> 
> Prompt: I started with _14\. If your singer ain't happy, ain't nobody happy_, but there's a lot of _21\. A band is the dysfunctional family you choose_ in here.
> 
> Also available as a [podfic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/life-in-44-time) performed by the lovely Luzula.

_"Yeah, what? Leave a message." Beep._

"Billiam? Pick up the phone, you asshole." There was a long pause before Joe started talking again, words hard and staccato. "Where the fuck are you?" Joe sniffed loudly and Billy could imagine him brushing away the white powder from his nose. There was a loud crash in the background and Joe muffled the phone with his hand before shouting at someone. It was a little while before he was done chewing out the unfortunate soul who'd fucked up and started talking again. "Look, I've got something to say and I don't wanna say it to your fucking machine." Another long pause, full of things Joe couldn't, _wouldn't_ say. "Billy, call when you get this. We gotta talk."

The dial tone hung in the air like an accusation.

Billy took a hard drag off of his cigarette and yanked on the answering machine, pulling it free from the wall and flinging it across the room, watching it shatter against the wall with a grim smile of satisfaction. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Joe climbing up on the table and pissing into Seymour Stein's drink, pissing away their chances for anything more than a lifetime of shitty gigs in small-time bars. Joe'd fucked them over one more time and Billy couldn't figure out _why_.

* * *

_"I'm busy. Leave a message." Beep. _

"Where the fuck are you? You never answer your phone, you never call back. Stop being a cunt and call me back, you asshole." Joe exhaled loudly and Billy was sure he was smoking, could almost smell the acrid smoke. He was whining a little. "C'mon, Billy, you're still not mad, are you?" There was a silence, stretching out for so long that Billy thought Joe had hung up. Then his voice was back, something sly and malicious creeping into his words. "I heard you've been playing some gigs with Paul Robinson. Must be nice. You a rock 'n' roll star now? Got record execs throwing themselves at you, Billy-baby? Fucker." Billy could hear Joe drumming his fingers impatiently. "Get over yourself and call me, Billiam."

The answering machine clicked softly to itself, whirring as it rewound the tape.

Billy shifted on the ratty couch and raised his glass toward the answering machine in an ironic salute. The money he'd earned from the Robinson gigs was long gone, spent on rent and booze. He'd made a few extra bucks working at a bar down the street as a doorman, but if his luck didn't change soon, he was gonna have to get some shitty full-time job to make ends meet.

Ed hadn't called him in close to two weeks and the last time they'd talked, Ed was so full of "the economy is bad all over" bullshit that Billy had hung up on him.

Billy took another drink of the cheap whiskey and grimaced. Sitting up, he poured the rest of the liquor from the bottle into his glass and sighed. That was the last of his alcohol until he got some more cash in hand.

* * *

_Beep._

"Billy? Pick up the phone, damn you." Joe's voice sounded rough, like he'd been chain-smoking for days.

Billy blinked owlishly from where he lay on the carpeted floor. He'd had a little too much to drink and couldn't find the energy to get back up. "Fuck off, Joe," he told Joe's disembodied voice. "I'm tired of you telling me what to do."

"Billy. C'mon, man. You gonna be mad at me forever or what, you fuck? You're such a pussy, you know that?" There was an incessant metallic clanging that Billy's drunken mind finally deciphered as Joe opening and closing his Zippo. "Listen, I was looking for that Screeching Weasel LP that we picked up in Chicago — _Boogabooga!_ or some shit. I can't find it anywhere and I really wanted to listen to it." Joe stopped fidgeting with his lighter. "Well, give me a call if you run across it. Thanks for nothing, you cunt."

From his place on the floor, Billy flipped Joe off. "Fuck you." He reached for the bottle he'd dropped and finished off the whiskey, belching loudly. "Fuck. Jus' leave me alone." He held onto consciousness for a little longer before passing out to the almost soothing sound of Joe's voice cussing him out.

* * *

_...reckless endangerment...is suspended for a period of six months...into the Hamilton Recovery Center to deal with your addiction...successfully complete the treatment program..._

_...this is your best bet, Billy, your only bet...or they're gonna deport you back to Canada...no green card...it's a good deal, a great deal, most people don't get chances like this..._

The rooms were too bright and Billy hated his roommate, a long-term resident named Jeff who stuttered and talked about his mother a lot. Jeff's problem was inhalants, which he told Billy about in great detail the first ten minutes Billy was there. Jeff reminded Billy unfavorably of John that time they were on tour, when he and Pipe had tormented John until John had suddenly tried to strangle Joe in the middle of the show. Which had never made any sense to Billy. Even then, John had been crazier than shit. The evening had ended with the four of them in jail outside of Saskatoon. At least they'd slept somewhere warm that night.

He wasn't sure about this whole rehab thing. It seemed suspiciously touchy-feely to him, plus they wanted him to get up and _exercise_ at the ass-crack of dawn every morning. There was something seriously fucked-up about that.

The counselors were always cheerful and chipper, forever trying to get him to join in their stupid little reindeer games. Cards, jigsaw puzzles, finger paints. He didn't think so.

* * *

_06:00 A.M. — Wake up call  
06:30 A.M. — Calisthenics  
08:00 A.M. — Breakfast  
08:30 A.M. — Assigned chores  
09:00 A.M. — Morning assessment  
09:30 A.M. — Group therapy session  
12:00 P.M. — Lunch_

Group was a fucking joke. He had to sit in a circle with all these fucking losers, listening to them piss and moan about their pathetic lives and how they _really_ weren't addicted to whatever it was they were addicted to. He refused to participate at first, sitting off by himself with his arms crossed defensively over his chest, but then the counselor pointed out that he needed to complete the treatment program _successfully_, which included attending group and sharing with the other "clients", to get the fuck out of there.

So he participated, half-heartedly. Managed to make fun of that bitch Jeff some more, made the crack-girl cry when she started complaining about losing her fucking kids to social services and got punched in the nose by Mr. Dickhead-I-don't-have-an-addiction-I-can-stop-anytime-I-want.

One thing he'd learned from Joe was how to take a hit and come up fighting. So he did, and it was only a matter of time before the entire group was into it, a free-for-all of fighting and throwing chairs and screaming. Out of the corner of his eye Billy watched the crack-girl try to scratch out the counselor's eyes before being lifted away by David the orderly. She turned on David, hitting and clawing at him, and Billy had time for a mad cackle before a heavy fucking weight smashed him to the ground.

He hit his head hard on the floor and when the room stopped spinning, he found himself carefully restrained by James, the head orderly. James picked him up like he weighed nothing and carried Billy back to his room, ignoring his struggles and talking to him like he was a wild animal that needed taming. Maybe he was.

After that, he lost his so-called privileges and he wasn't allowed back to the group sessions. Which had been the whole fucking point.

* * *

_12:30 P.M. — Personal therapy sessions  
02:00 P.M. — Assigned chores_

The one-on-one sessions were _much_ worse than group.

* * *

_From the case notes of Dr. Michael Koskins, M.D._

_Client W.B., age 33, admitted to HRC as part of court-mandated rehabilitation for alcohol addiction. _

_After initial sessions, have prescribed Prozac to help with clinical depression and Dextroamphetamine for adult ADD. Client still exhibits noticeable nervousness and hostility when discussing certain subjects, specifically his former band mate Joseph Mulgrew and his parents. Any attempted examination and analysis of his childhood or his relationship with Joseph typically results an explosion of anger. Have had to call the orderlies in several times to sedate W.B. before he became a danger._

_Client is extremely resistant to standard treatments due to anti-authoritarian leanings and requires a more personal and unobtrusive course of therapy. Currently attempting to let the patient control the subjects discussed, hoping that self-analysis will lead him to open up on these obviously emotionally painful subjects._

Billy made it clear from the very beginning that there were certain subjects that were off limits. His mom. That one time in Regina with what's-her-name, Molly. And Joe.

But the counselor was sneaky. He'd lure Billy into a false sense of safety by talking about innocuous things like the good old days with the band, the weather, how Billy was getting along with his roommate, or how bad the food was at the Hamilton Recovery Center.

Smiling, Billy would tell him some of his best road stories, the wacky and wild things that had happened while bouncing around from bar to club to bar. The beatings from locals who'd taken exception to Hard Core Logo — sometimes Joe's spitting wasn't received in the _spirit_ it was intended. The groupies. The rip-offs that had been pulled on them, the scams they'd run on others. The money they'd snorted and drank and fucked away. The hangovers they'd nursed each other through, sometimes inventing vile concoctions in an attempt to make _someone_ hurl.

And then suddenly, it was like Joe was in the room with them, sitting next to Billy on the couch, insolent and slouching. Billy would bring the conversation to a screeching halt, try to do a U-turn, steer it away from how much he hated Joe and how much he missed him. In the back of his head, he could hear Joe's raucous laughter and he never looked at the counselor because he was afraid of the pity he was sure he'd see on his face.

Once he'd acknowledged Joe's ghostly presence, he because impossible to ignore. Like a genie in a bottle, Billy couldn't stuff Joe back into his carefully labeled box in the back of his brain. He fought long and hard to not start every sentence with "Joe" and at the end of every therapy session he was sweating with the effort, shaking.

He _really_ needed a drink.

* * *

_03:00 P.M. — Anger management session  
05:00 P.M. — Dinner_

Anger management seriously pissed him off. Which, if he'd been thinking clearly, would have struck him as funny. They wanted him to practice some shit called Cognitive Restructuring, which involved replacing his angry thoughts with more rational, calming thoughts. They wanted him to stop cussing, because "the cursing was an expression of his anger". If he would stop using angry words, he would stop feeling the anger.

Fuck that shit. Uh-uh. No fucking way. That was too much like being a zombie.

* * *

_06:30 P.M. — 12-step meeting  
08:00 P.M. — Ending assessment  
10:00 P.M. — Lights out_

The 12-step meeting was the only time he actually paid any attention, because he had started to suspect that there might have been a problem before the whole court-mandated rehab thing had happened. But there were some things in the meetings that he couldn't wrap his fucking mind around.

The big one was the "caring and loving higher power" that he was supposed to believe in.

That higher power had let his mom get beaten regularly by her "boyfriends". She'd sneak in, late at night, pretending that nothing was wrong, that she'd gotten the black eye from running into a door. That same higher power let Joe's dad use a cane on the Mulgrew kids when they misbehaved, leaving behind big fucking welts and broken bones. What about Pipe's mom, drifting further and further away from reality until she'd fucking thrown herself out of a fifth story window? And John? There was no fucking way Billy could believe in a benign higher power after seeing the wreckage of John's childhood. It was no wonder he was mostly crazy.

This was the higher power that was supposed to restore him to sanity? Not fucking likely.

* * *

_"I'm busy smuggling maple syrup into Canada. Leave a message or place your order at the beep." Beep._

"Billy-boy, it's Ed Festus. I've got some work lined up for you. It's just some studio work, but it's better than nothing. Give me a call and we'll work out the details. Pay's not great, but it's enough to buy you some booze." Ed chuckled. "Oh, right, you don't do that anymore. Sorry, I forgot," he said, sounding about as sincere as he usually did. "Don't worry about it, kid. Going to rehab is like a badge of honor around here. Everyone's doing it. Call me so we can iron out the details and get you back into the game. Ciao, baby."

"Asshole," Billy mumbled around the string in his mouth, busy working on tuning his guitar. He'd had this riff stuck in his head, it'd been there for _days_, slowly driving him insane, demanding that he let it loose on the guitar.

When Billy had first realized what that annoying tickle in the back of his head had been, he'd felt an overpowering sense of relief. He hadn't felt anything for the music since that last night with the band, in New York City. He'd begun to think that maybe Joe was right, that maybe he _wasn't_ anything without the band.

Joe was such a cunt.

* * *

_"Fuck off. Leave a message." Beep._

"Billiam, pick up the fucking phone. I know you're there — Ed told me you're finally out of rehab. C'mon, Billy, stop being such a dick and pick up the damn phone. I'm tired of talking to your fucking machine." Joe coughed, obviously uncomfortable. "Look, Billy, I'm sorry, okay? Really, I am. But it wasn't my fault. I'm sorry, sorry, fucking sorry. Will you please pick up the phone?" There was a long pause where all Billy could hear was Joe's breathing. "Billy. I'm glad you're all right," Joe whispered before hanging up.

Billy looked up from the sheet music he was studying, disbelief etched across his face. He stood up and walked to the answering machine, punching buttons until he managed to pull the recording tape out of the machine, yanking and tugging, watching the tape unreel from the spool. "You son-of-a-bitch, manipulative rat-bastard."

In his agitation, Billy managed to knock the machine to the floor and he started to kick it repeatedly with his steel-toed punk boots, the ones he'd gotten cheap at thrift store in downtown L.A.

Eventually, there was nothing left of the answering machine except shards of plastic and machine bits. Billy sat onto the floor, anger exhausted, wanting a drink so badly he could taste it. "Fuck you, Joe." He covered his face with shaking hands, trying to get his emotions back under control. "I'm not running back to you. Not this time. Not ever again."

Billy was sure that he'd believe it, some day.

* * *

_"I picked up some hookers from down the street. I'm busy. Leave a message." Beep._

"Bill. It's me. Pick up the phone. Please."

It was late, well past midnight. He'd been having trouble sleeping and after a certain point, he'd given up and wandered into the living room, throwing himself on the couch and staring blankly at the ceiling.

Billy wasn't sure what made him pick up the phone from the coffee table, the quietness in Joe's voice or the masochist streak he's always struggled with. Either way, it was time to settle this old business. He had a life here in L.A. now and no reason to go back to Canada, to the old habits and the old lifestyle. He had something to live for, now.

"Yeah, I'm here, Joe."

"William."

There was so much unsaid in the way Joe sighed his name.

Billy laid there in the dark, listening to the strangely intimate silence between them. He let it stretch out, listening to the sound of Joe breathing, feeling _connected_ in a way he hadn't felt in years. Not since he'd left Canada.

"How are you, Billy?" Joe's voice wrapped around him warmly, so damn familiar. Like a taste of home that he couldn't forget no matter how hard he tried.

"I'm okay, Joe. Doing better. You?" He cleared his throat, hoping that the longing he felt wasn't audible in his scratchy voice. "How's the band?"

"Bill. Fuck the band. I want to know how you're doing." Billy could hear him inhale slowly, savoring the cigarette smoke. It made his fingers itch to hold a cigarette, but he didn't want to get up and go searching for them right now. He didn't want to break the spell that Joe was weaving around them in the midnight darkness. "I was worried about you, Bill."

Feeling lost, Billy pressed his fingers hard against his eyes to keep the tears back. He had rarely heard that rough affection from Joe and now it snuck under his defenses and hit him harder than it should. He swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"Talk to me, Billy."

Curling up on the couch, feeling warm and not-alone, he did.

* * *

_"I'm busy tipping cows. Leave a message." Beep._

"Hey, Billy-boy, it's Ed Festus. I've got a job for you. Remember Trevor? Heard it from him that Jenifur is looking for a replacement guitarist for their Lollapalooza dates — their guitarist is in rehab. Sound familiar? It might lead to something bigger and better. Maybe. Nothing here in L.A. is set in stone, you know how it is. Give me a call when you get this."

Billy figured he had nothing to lose. He called Ed back, made arrangements and a week later met the band at the studio. He'd had time to listen to some of their music, commit a couple of their songs to memory and hope for the best.

They wanted him to play, so he unpacked his guitar and started with one of Jenifur's hits, a song that's wasn't half-bad if he could ignore the blandness of the lyrics. He played, trying to _feel_ the music, half-closing his eyes and searching for that connection when the sharp-faced woman came forward, making a cutting motion across her neck.

"No. Play something of yours. Not Jenifur. Not Hard Core Logo. Yours." Her words were fast and clipped but there was an intensity to her that was almost hypnotic. Billy had a hard time looking away from her bright eyes.

He debated on what to play for a moment before settling on the newest piece, the one he'd finished after getting out of rehab. It was a strangely intimate experience, watching her face as he played. Through the music she _saw_ him for what he was, the first person to do so in a long, long time. It scared him, but he didn't let that show. He just played for her.

"Yeah, you'll do."

* * *

_"I'm busy watching porn and fucking starlets. Leave a message." Beep._

"Billiam. Hey, I've got a gig for Friday down at the Churchill Arms. It's a dive, but at least the fucking people there know what real music sounds like. None of this grunge-rock-pop shit that you seem to be so fucking fond of. Cunt. You should come check it out. It'll remind you of where your musical roots are. Or where they should be."

The dial tone was loud. Looking up from the paperwork, Billy grimaced in the direction of the answering machine. His head hurt and being yelled at by Joe wasn't helping.

Ed had this stuff couriered over this evening, after several days of being jerked around by the hot-shot lawyers from the label. Here was the contract. It wasn't a permanent gig but it could easily turn into one, if Earl didn't get out of rehab soon. But this fucking thing had so many clauses and sub-clauses that he'd twisted his brain into knots trying to understand it.

He'd always left the niggling technicalities and details of their contracts to Joe's somewhat competent care. Well, he was learning how to read the fucking contracts for himself.

* * *

_"I'm actually home, I just don't wanna talk to you. Leave a message." Beep._

"Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy." Joe paused to catch his breath. "What the hell's the point of a phone if you're never gonna answer it? You're such a fuck-tard. Call me back. Got some ideas about getting the band back together that I want to run past you."

"No, no, no, no, no, no," Billy chanted back as he gathered up all the empty pizza boxes and take-out containers that littered the living room. He was flying out in a few hours to join Jenifur at some alt-rock festival in the middle of nowhere and he figured he'd better clean up the trash before he left. He didn't know how long he was going to be gone and he didn't want the rats and roaches to take over his apartment while he was absent. At least not without paying a fair share of the rent.

* * *

_"It's me. Leave a message." Beep._

"Billy, where the fuck are you? Bucky Haight's been shot. He's okay, but he's lost his leg." Joe took a deep breath and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. "I want to do a benefit show for him. Vancouver. I've got a bunch of bands lined up, everyone's jumping at the chance to help him out." Joe lowered his voice, slowed down and seemed to be thinking carefully about what he was saying. "I know that you've never really liked Bucky, but I really would appreciate it if you'd help out. Please, Billy."

Billy closed his eyes and sighed. Fucker. Joe knew every button to push, damn him. He opened his eyes again and looked at the bottle sitting on the coffee table. He'd been staring at it for a while now. He could almost taste it and his mouth watered in anticipation.

Maybe one small glass. Something to take the edge off of the terribly frustrating week he'd had, trying to get some work, any work as a studio player. The Jenifur gig was pretty much over except for the crying and he really, _really_ wanted a drink. Needed one.

Dreamily, he touched the bottle, enjoying the smooth, slick feel of glass under his fingers. Abruptly, he realized that he was _fondling_ the fucking bottle and was filled with disgust at himself. "Shit." He grabbed the bottle and walked over to the window which had a shitty view of the back alleyway. After checking to make sure no one was around, Billy opened the window and tossed the bottle, feeling grimly satisfied as it shattered and splashed the whiskey all over the street.

He shut the window and went to the phone, dialing a number that he hadn't managed to forget in spite of all the years that had passed. "Joe?"

-fin-


End file.
